30
“The only difference between marriage and prison is that a prisoner gets to finish a sentence.”
For the next few days, Kiki had been MIA with work, and when I finally got ahold of her, I gave her the roach-on-boob play-by-play.
“So what you’re saying is you broke up because of an insect.”
“Multiple ones. And we weren’t together, so we couldn’t break up—”
“You know what I mean. So, when’s Tim coming to get Miles?”
“An hour.”
I was a wreck. They always say the holidays have the highest suicide rates. And while I wasn’t planning on roping up a noose, the knowledge that my child and ex-husband would be spending Thanksgiving break together had resulted in a profound stomach pit. Not that I really wanted to be at Sherry Von’s Locust Valley nightmare, with food prepared entirely by her staff, no soul, no warmth except that created by Hubert’s beautiful votives and flower arrangements—but I wanted to be with my son, and that wasn’t going to happen. I honestly couldn’t even recall a time when I was on my own for Thanksgiving. My dad was on a cruise, my friends were all with their in-laws or extended families, and Kiki and I were going to go somewhere fun and do our own thing, until she threw me for a loop.
“So, about Thanksgiving . . . ,” she said, in a funny tone I hadn’t heard from her. “How about we do something different, spice up our plan of action?”
“Okay, like what?”
“Well . . . the other night I walk in from the office at, like, ten o’clock, and my phone’s ringing. Lyle Spence.”
“NO! What is he, like, a total stalker?”
“Actually, no. At first I tried to shake him while I flipped through the channels. But there was nothing on TV, not even Skinemax, so I just started talking to him. For three hours.”
“What? Are you serious?”
“Holly: He’s a riot. I couldn’t believe it. He’s really cool,” she remarked in a coy, almost shy tone. (Kiki? Shy? Never!) “So we met up the next night and we had the best time. . . . I slept with him. It was amazing. And I really like him.”
“No—”
“Yes! I’m as surprised as you are—I mean, he’s a complete stranger and yet, I’m . . . into him. I asked him all about the crazy art world, his insane hedge fund clients, everything, it was . . . really fun.”
She never spoke with such tenderness. “AND?”
“And he lives on Central Park West, right on the parade route—he says Garfield’s nose bumps on his window, for Chrissake—and he has people over every year. He says it’s a really fun group—friends, clients, about fifty people, and he invited us to come!”
“Really?” That could be fun, I mused. I did love watching the parade on TV with Miles every year. It would be depressing to watch Matt Lauer alone when I could have full view of the action in person. “Okay, let’s do it.”
I went into Miles’s room and sat beside him to pack his bag. That morning we had made chocolate chip pancakes together and traced our hands on some construction paper to make turkeys. I hung his up on the fridge and, while he zoned out during his weekend dose of Nickelodeon, took mine and wrote on it:
My sweet Milesie,
I miss you already, but know you’ll have a great Turkey
Day. I love you so much and I’m so thankful for
you, my little love. Xoxo Mom
I tucked it into his bag and zipped it up, and when I heard the buzzer from the lobby, we went downstairs so I could stay with Miles right up until he pulled away in Tim’s car.
But when we got downstairs, I saw Tim looking surprised to see me. I wasn’t quite sure why until I walked outside to load the duffel in the trunk. To my dismay, when said vehicle did approach our awning, there was someone in the passenger seat. Avery. Wrecker of homes. She quickly looked out the drizzle-covered windshield to avoid eye contact with the dreaded ex-wife, and I pretended not to notice her. While I knew she was very much in the picture, I guess I didn’t realize she’d be there for such a family-oriented holiday. I was going to be off at some random party with strangers as Kiki’s wingman, and poor Miles should at least be the focus of his father’s attention, not her. Okay, breathe. I tried to stay calm.
“Hey, buddy!” Tim said, hugging Miles. “Ready for a great weekend?”
Miles turned to me. I knelt down beside him, fighting tears. “Be a good boy, sweets,” I said, holding his face.
“I love you, Mom. Happy Thanksgiving.” He bear-hugged me and I felt the tears begin to fry my retinas but blinked them back. As Miles turned to get in the car, Tim, who knew me so well, clearly saw my pink-hued eyes and leaned in.
“Holly, I am so sorry. I thought I would come up to get him.”
“It’s fine, whatever, honestly,” I said, praying I could force back the cataracts with an emotional Hoover Dam.
“I know it must be hard. I feel . . . terrible seeing you hurt—”
Great. Of all the burdens I’d dealt with emotionally, his pity was like a backpack filled with shot-put balls, too heavy to bear.
“It’s okay, Tim. What’s done is done, right?” I could feel the waves mounting, pounding against the weakened resolve of my so-called dam. “Have a nice time,” I offered, genuinely, as Tim gave me a small smile. His eyes looked guilty, but as I walked away, he hopped in the car, hit the gas, and drove my son off into the evening. That feeling of loss, of Miles being transported away from me, would now be a rough horse pill I would simply have to get used to swallowing.
I went back in the slow-as-molasses elevator. When I got upstairs, I staggered home and flopped on the couch.
A couple hours after I’d dozed off, the phone rang. It was John, wondering if I was free the following night. A random Tuesday, and as I had nothing planned, I agreed to see him. And after my roll in the hay-slash-roaches with Chef Boy, a grown-up man might be just what I needed: a mature antidote to my youthful dalliance.